Dear Diary
by beckyxxx
Summary: The diary entrys of a girl becoming close to Gothams crime lords. Rated M for later romance.
1. Chapter 1

21/3/2017

My shrink thinks starting a diary is going to help me 'let things go'. He says I have 'obsessive tendencies'. Whatever dude. I just know I'm angry all the time. What the fuck do you even write in these things anyway?

So I dance for a living. Hot, naughty, naked dancing. I have for years. It's the best fucking job in the world. Even when I was dancing for Gothams scum, right in the beginning, it was awesome. Dudes worship you, every night is a party, and the moneys _great_. I started at the bottom, dancing for drunks and perverts, and worked my way up. I've danced for the cream of the fucking crop, my friend. I've danced for Bruce motherfucking WAYNE. What a tightass. He's got a face like a smacked sack and he would rather talk business with his wealthy bootlickers that have a pair of titties is his face. Asshole. His bootlickers though, they pay out big time. Tens and twenties just to take my panties off. I bought my first goddamn car after dancing for Wayne and his buddies. He hired me for his guests a couple of times after that, but I haven't had any big pay work like that for a while. I do ok though.

So I don't feel any less angry yet. I'm gonna ask my shrink what the fuck I'm paying him for.

22/3/17

Apparently I have to write something every day.

Ok - today I bought some clothes and shit.

There. I'm cured. Cool as a fucking cucumber. Piece of shit diary.

23/3/17

I went to my self-defence class today. I love self defence. It's a fucking awesome work out, and helps if the dudes I dance for think they can get a little extra, if you know what I mean. My instructor, Leighton, is hot as shit. He's a fag though, so boohoo for me. I even asked him out for drinks once, and he fucking said yes! Here's me, waxing my junk for him and over the first round of drinks he's all,

"By the way, I'm a fucking massive homo." After I got over being pissed off at him we got fucked up together and it was a scream. He's the closest thing I have to a friend I guess. I don't really do the whole 'girlfriends' thing. People just fucking irritate me. I would still totally blow Leighton though…

24/3/17

I need to find some work. Know of any rich douchebags that want a shit hot dancer at their fundraiser? Of course you don't. You're a fucking book.

25/3/17

This lame ass diary shit is getting old quick. I'm going to Metropolis for a few days, taking a working vaykay. I'm not taking you with me, so suck it therapy.

28/3/17

Metropolis was a fucking blast! Gotham is awesome and all but I was born in Metro City and it will always be home. Plus, I can always get work there. I danced a few nights at Denny's, where I first started. The clientele was a little… _different_ to what I'm used to now but hey, I work to get paid, right? That's how I can afford this freaking awesome apartment.

29/3/17

Denny called today. I thought he was gonna ask me to go back to the club full time, so I was about to be all – no way dude. But that's not what it was about. Turns out some guy called him looking for - and I quote - 'exceptional dancers' and Denny thought of little old me! He's a sweetie I guess. Anyway this guy quoted $100,000 for a three-week contract, plus tips. I'm like – where's the catch? Anyway. Denny set me up a meeting with this guy to discuss the fine print. I _guess_ I'll go, douche better not be wasting my time.

31/3/17

So I'm meeting that guy tonight at 8.00pm in The Black Canary bar on Arkham Ave. Just giving you some evidence in case I get kidnapped, raped and killed. Or kidnapped, killed and raped. Yeesh.

1/4/17

Holy shit. I have so much to write my fingers wont go quick enough.

So I get to the Black Canary, and it's a fucking shithole, on the bottom floor of what I thought where offices or apartments. I walked in the door and it smelled like goddamn sweat and come, and my feet where sticking to the carpet. I swear I was about to leave when the barman looked up from his cash register and said,

"Jesus, your different from their usual type." Just like that. _What the fuck?!_ I didn't know what to say, and just as I opened my mouth to ask him what the fuck he meant, two of the biggest dudes I have ever seen came out of a door next to the restrooms. Now I have never been called 'miss' by anyone, but sure as shit this fucking hulk of a dude says,

"The boss will see you upstairs at your leisure, Miss Taylor." I think I just looked at him for a while, taking in how stacked they both where, and wondering why the barmen had used the word "their", was I going to be dancing for more than one guy? Anyway I didn't show them my nerves and was all like, "Sure Mongo, lead the way."

So we went through the door they had appeared from, and into a stairwell. I guess we went up about 3 floors, and the smell started to improve. In fact, by the time we reached the top floor, the place was much cleaner. Spotless even.

The door off the stairwell lead to what I thought looked like the entrance to one of those posh clubs in the rich end of Gotham. It was all deep red walls and carpets, a booth for taking money, a cloakroom, and one other door. I started to get excited, was I going to get contracted to a club for all the wealthy married guys in Gotham!? Mongo snapped me out of my daydream as he ushered me through the only other door. Goon 2, who hadn't said a word, took up his mantle next to the door. His hands were clasped in front of him and shoulders squared in the typical goon fashion.

Mongo got me to take a seat on one of the many sofas in the next room. That's when I started to get _really_ excited. There are mirrors everywhere, even on the ceiling. The whole place is decked out in lavish silks and velvets in gold, red and cream. I could live in that room. Everything looks pricey, like someone had just added a dash of…sex. A massive bar took up the whole of one wall – it's the first thing you see when you walk in. All these expensive looking champagnes and spirits lined up like guards on a dark oak battlefield. See, I get so excited about this shit I start using fancy phrases! Anyway, there are all these stuffed animal heads on the walls, deer and fox and shit. Don't even get me started on the leather sofas. I love that room.

_ Anyway _Mongo gets behind the bar and goes "Would Miss Taylor care for a drink?"

I just sighed and said, "Look Mongo, stop calling me miss ok? Call me Beau, or just B if you like. Jesus." I felt bad though, because he looked all panicky, like he had orders to be super polite. So I asked him to fix me a martini. I had never had one before, but that setting, and having been called Miss – twice – called for a posh drink. It tasted like a rat had drank poison and then vomited it back into my glass. I was disappointed. Rich people invent these expensive drinks and then they taste like shit! Assholes.

So, there are four doors in this room. Two for the bathrooms, the one I entered through, and a kind of hidden one, behind the bar. When it first opened I thought it was just Mongo, doing whatever he was doing back there. But when I heard him say "What can I get you to drink boss?" I knew someone else was in the room. I turned in my seat to address my potential new employer, but the door was still open, and I could only see half of his expensive looking suit, a dark green Armani number. I started to feel nervous, like I was at a fucking job interview or something. When he spoke to order his drink, (a whiskey sour) his voice didn't sound right, like he had a bad throat, but worse. It was deep and raspy – a growl. I sort of recognised it, but I didn't think anything of it until he stepped out from behind the door, and I almost wet my panties. His face. It was burned. Badly burned, the whole of the right side of his head in fact. I have never seen anyone so badly disfigured. Whatever burned him must have burned for a long fucking time, because some of his lip was missing, pulling his mouth back into some sort of sick grimace and showing his teeth. There was no hair on the right side of his head, and his ear was just a little mound of gristle and a hole. I felt sick, the combination of the vile martini and the shock of his scars made the room spin a little. I began to try and pull myself together as he made his way over to where I was sitting. I stood as he reached me, and held out my hand, managing a smile.

I said something along the lines of, "Hi, Beau Taylor. I hear your looking for a dancer." Its all still a total blur. He sort of regarded me for a second, and then took my hand. His palm and fingers where all burned too, and felt twisted and rubbery in mine. The feeling made me want to squirm, but I kept my cool.

"I'm not looking. Chance is looking." He growled. Well then. What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? The left half of his face, the side without burns, broke into a smile.

"I'm just messing with you kid. Here's the situation:' He beckoned for me to sit again and I did so. 'I'm beginning a little operation. I have many associates who like to feel… pampered when we have our meetings up here. Pretty little flowers like yourself make it feel less like a chore and more like an evening for gentlemen. Don't you agree?" Half of him smiled again and he took a seat to my left. It was then I realised. With him sitting to my left, I could only see the unscarred side of his face. And who wouldn't recognise that face? It was Gothams Fallen White Night. It was Harvey. Fucking. Dent.


	2. Chapter 2

2/4/17

I don't remember a lot of the conversation that followed. I think I must have stayed pretty coherent. But the realisation that I was at a job interview for one of the biggest, most high profile crime lords in Gotham can leave a girl reeling. However, the thing that struck me the most as he was talking - more than who he was, more than his scars, more than his past – was how charming he is. I mean, the guy is such a gent. Come on, this is the man who is supposed to have brutally murdered men with his bare hands, and here he is, replenishing my drink and making me feel at ease.

Anyway, after a while of chatting and me coming round from the shock of it all, he looks at me and says,

"You have been here 10 minutes and haven't mentioned my scars, or that fact that you know who I am. Most girls have walked out by now." He just went on looking at me, the eye on his burned side staring just over my shoulder. He wanted me to explain. Shit.

"Well… if I'm honest?" I met his gaze and he nodded, sitting back into the sofa. "I really don't know what's keeping me here. I had a hundred things to ask about this job and I have forgotten them all. Your Harvey goddamn Dent! That clown guy fucked up your face and then you _joined him!_ You wiped out half of the crime in this city and now you're the head of it all, and you want _me_ of all the women in the world to provide entertainment for you while you plan something that I'm assuming isn't too savoury?" I paused and drew my breath a little. He didn't respond, he just went on looking at me. "And yet here I am. I haven't left and I don't know why." I sat back in my seat, feeling confused and a little scared. Had I just crossed a line? I didn't know how stable this guy was after all. Nevertheless, he just leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. He was closer to me now and I could smell his cologne. He smelled good and I relaxed a little more. I always imagined criminals like this to smell like sweat and dirt, but he was so well groomed. I couldn't imagine him sneaking about in alleyways. He didn't seem like a criminal at all. When he spoke again, there was passion in his voice.

"I like you Beau. I think you have stayed because you know in your heart what it takes others a lifetime to realise. It's true. Joker did this to me. But it has never been a bad thing. It taught me how truly _unfair_ the world is and how truly _fair_ chaos is." He reached into his breast pocket and produced a coin, twirling it incessantly between his fingers. "We are not criminals. We are making the world truly _fair._ Chaos cannot be controlled or planned. There is no one _in charge_. Whatever becomes of it is just, because there is no other way._"_ He looked up from his coin, waiting for my reaction. I couldn't fully understand what he had just said. It's still sinking in now. But I knew there was a fundamental truth in his words. At that moment I only had one question.

"Why are you explaining all this to someone your just paying to take her clothes off?" He laughed, suddenly and genuinely, from the back of his throat. It made me jump.

"Like I said, I like you. I want you to understand. Plus, I need a girl with her head round this situation. No other _performers _have stayed more than a week. My associates can be a little…_ intense. _I think what you see is what you get with you Beau, and I want to be honest with you from the start."

Writing this now, it still seems so surreal. I'm not a criminal; the most illegal thing I have ever done was smoke a bit of weed… Was taking this job illegal? Was working for this man a crime? At the time it felt like a dream. I couldn't believe I was considering this. No, not even considering. I think I had already decided.

"Ok then," I mused, "What did you mean by your guys being _intense._ What kind of stuff will I have to deal with?" He smiled a fond smile and sipped his drink, tilting his head slightly to the left, so none of the liquid escaped through his wounds.

"Two thirds of the men I work with have been inside Arkham Asylum. Two thirds of _those_ where never cleared and released – they broke out. There are some twisted personalities among us Beau. Some of these men have murdered, raped and maimed other human beings. You need to be able to come to terms with this." His smile had gone and he looked at me, searching my face for signs of fear. I showed none, so he continued.

"However, I hire girls like you for the look of the thing, no offence meant. It's sort of expected. Wine women and song as the saying goes. These men usually don't come here for a dance, they come here to discuss our work, and you are an extremely beautiful bonus. Our work though, tends to be equally as absorbing. Again, no offence meant." I felt my cheeks flush a little.

" So I dance in the background and make the place look good? And these guys never try anything? These psychopaths and killers, some of whom have been locked away, they don't get at all excited at naked women walking around the place?" I felt confused again, and a little angry. "You don't have to sugar coat it, Mr Dent. I know how to handle a sex starved John. What I want to know is, will I be in any danger?" A deadly serious expression crossed Harvey Dents face and he leaned forward. As he began to answer my question he beckoned to Mongo, who placed a sheet of paper on the table in front of me.

"I consider anyone I employ to be in my care. As long as you work here, if anyone lays a finger on you, makes a threat against you, or even looks at you the wrong way, he will not see the sun rise the next day. I am sure of it." My breath had caught in my throat. This was the most serious shit I had ever gotten myself into and yet I felt… excited. I didn't know what to say to him, so I turned my attention to the document in front of me.

"This is a list of terms and requirements. Read them carefully." A sharp ringing made me jump, and Harvey Dent, master of the goddamn underworld, answered his cell phone and silently excused himself. He sounded happy as he made his way to the stairwell. Once the door had closed behind him I exhaled. Holy shit. It was a lot to take in. Mongo approached me to take my empty glass.

"The boss likes you Miss." He murmured. "I hope you gets the job." He shuffled away shyly and I smiled genuinely at him, not knowing what to say. I looked at the paper again, and once again felt overwhelmed. It looked like the ten commandments:

**You are required to perform one strip tease at the beginning of each evening. This must vary, and may have various themes.**

**You must make private dances available to any patrons for the duration of your shift. These will be covered in your monthly wage.**

**You are required to speak well and politely to all patrons, and fulfil their needs within your capabilities and reason.**

**You are required to serve patrons with drinks.**

**You are required to handle and serve narcotics.**

**You may drink alcohol during your shift within reason. You are ****_not_**** permitted to become heavily intoxicated.**

**You are ****_not _****required to engage in the use of narcotics if it is against your will.**

**You are ****_not_**** required to drink alcohol if it is against your will.**

**You are ****_not _****required to engage in any sexual activities with patrons. Patrons are made aware of this.**

**You will present yourself immaculately at all times. Hair and makeup must be professionally applied before each shift. A monthly budget for this will be added to your wage.**

Holy shit. I was still reeling when the boss re-entered the room, smiling. When he smiles he looks truly terrifying, the scarred side of his face mirroring his normal side to create a deeply inane grin. And still, I wasn't afraid of him. He gracefully took a seat by me and said,

"My apologies. That was a very important phone call. Things are moving forward in our current endeavours. I might need you to start sooner than I thought –" he looked up quickly, a hint of apprehension in his good eye, "That's if you want the job." He finished speaking and looked at me intensely. I honestly didn't know what to say. I stammered for a second.

"Look, I'm going to need a little bit of time. This is a huge gig, I realise that, but handling narcotics? I'm not signing up to deal your dope Mr Dent." He laughed briefly.

"It's not like that at all. Listen, our first meeting is tomorrow night. Come along, see what it's all about, meet the other girls. If you hate it you can leave, no questions asked, no strings attached. I can guarantee your safety. If you like it I'll pay you your first wage there and then and we will be in business." He leaned forward earnestly and took my hand. "Beau, if your looking for a catch there isn't one. Just come and try it out." I stared blankly at him, and before I could stop myself, the word was in my mouth.

"Ok…" His unscarred side burst into a grin and he clapped his hands together.

"Good! My gentlemen will be arriving at about 9pm tomorrow night. Be here at 8.30 so we can discuss a few things in advance. You wont regret this my dear. And now you must excuse me, I have to begin organising tomorrow nights little soirée." He stood and the air tingled with his excitement, whatever was said during his phone conversation had obviously exhilarated him. "James will see you out." He smiled again at me and beckoned for Mongo, who held open the door. As I walked through into the red room, I could hear him on the phone again, talking in hushed but excited tones.

Goon 2 joined us as we descended, and once we where outside, he went to hail a cab. I felt numb, in a daze. I looked up at Mongo who stood by dutifully.

"Your name is James?" I asked. He nodded silently. "Can I still call you Mongo?" He nodded again, this time with a boyish grin on his face. We stood in silence for a while, watching Harvey's other henchman by the curb.

"He doesn't say much, does he?" The smile vanished from Mongos face.

"He called one of the girls a bitch one night miss." Mongo looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. I looked at him questioningly.

"What do you mean?"

"Joker found out miss, and he cut out his tougue." He looked at me sheepishly, and I knew he had said too much. We stood a while longer until Mongo said,

"His names Ben miss, he's me brother. Don't think badly of him miss. He's a good lad really. That girl…" he leaned into me and looked up and down the street "that girl _was_ a bitch." He stared hard at the floor, his face was red. I gave him a warm smile.

"I bet she was. Don't worry Mongo, I won't say anything." Ben had managed to get a cab, and was standing holding the door for me. As I climbed into the cab and thanked him, I felt deeply sorry for him. This Joker guy must be a real tyrant. Do I _really_ want this job?

And so here I am. Writing in some god damned diary because I can't tell anyone about this shit. Who the hell wouldn't try and talk me out of it!? Even though I know that, I know deep down I will go tomorrow night. Something about this whole situation excites me and I fucking hate it! If my entries end here you know I got into trouble with these wack jobs and I no longer exist. Tell Janie she can have my TV.


End file.
